


Ghosts of winter

by sayrs



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, F/F, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-09 23:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11679660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sayrs/pseuds/sayrs
Summary: In the ruins of Highgarden, Margaery Tyrell meets a mysterious spirit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of self-indulgent wish fulfillment. Suspend your disbelief at the door.
> 
> My beautiful Tyrells. Why must you take them away from me, show?
> 
>  
> 
> **WARNING: spoilers for Season 7, episode 3.**

"Grandmother!"

The Queen of Thorns leaned back in her chair.  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply one last time, and then was absolutely still.

Margaery sank to her knees beside her grandmother.  She sobbed.  The last time she felt such anguish, she was in the Great Sept, with her nearly catatonic brother beside her, and her father across the chamber, standing there, awaiting the inevitable.

"Grandmother..."  

With the death of Olenna, House Tyrell was no more.  Highgarden, once the beautiful, verdant, living heart of the Seven Kingdoms, was in ruins.  Her fabled wealth now rested in the hands of the Lannisters, the very people who drove every member of Margaery's family to their deaths.  The golden rose laid in the dirt, uprooted, trampled beneath the paws of the lion.  It would never again dazzle the eyes of all who beheld it, and never again tempt the hearts of kings and men.

Margaery reached out a shaky hand, longing to touch her grandmother again, to hear the confident reassurance of the old matriarch, to feel the old woman's love for her family.

Her hand passed through Olenna's still form, as if there was nothing there.

Margaery cried.  It was an ugly sound, utterly unbefitting the Rose of Highgarden.  She never cried like this.  Not even when she was very young, and hurt her knee in a terrible fall, in the gardens not far from where she knelt now.  Not even when she found out that the king she was been betrothed to was a cruel, psychotic man-child, who might end her life at a whim.  Not even when she was imprisoned in the Black Cells beneath the Red Keep, to be humiliated in every way, day after day, by that accursed septa and that self-righteous zealot of a High Sparrow.

If Grandmother could hear her, she would be so disappointed that her favorite granddaughter would let her emotions ruin her composure so thoroughly.  She could almost see Olenna shaking her head in disapproval.

Margaery only sobbed harder.

Her grandmother was dead.  Her house was dead.  And Margaery.  Beautiful, clever, ambitious Margaery.  She was dead, too.

Nothing mattered now.

 

"It is such a shame.  Things might have turned out differently, if only she had said one more thing to the Dragon Queen."

A man's voice.  Margaery did not even bother to raise her head.  Was it Jaime Lannister, having finally thought of a witty rejoinder to the Queen of Thorns' last words?  Or that traitor Tarly, here to gloat over the torn, broken roses.

"You Tyrells always thought you were so clever.  Too clever, in the end.  At least she did get in the last word.  I really, truly admire her tenacity, if not her sense of strategy."

"Oh, where are my manners?  Begging your pardon...your Grace."

Margaery's head snapped up.  She stood and whirled on the source of the voice.

A figure stood in the room, where there had been nothing there, just a few moments ago.  It was in the shape of a young man, with brown, curly hair.  It was dressed in all black, with hands enclosed in black gloves.  It seemed a perfectly normal person, in all ways except one.  Where its face should be, there was just ... nothing.  Its face was cloaked in shadows, completely obscuring its features, even though it was not wearing a hood.

Unnerved, Margaery took a step backward, hands held in front of herself protectively.

"Who are you?  Can you see me?"

"Of course."  The mysterious figure said. It turned to her, its faceless visage seeming to peer at her intently.

"How?" No one else could see her, no matter what she did.  Since her death – and her subsequent, inexplicable awakening in her current form – she met no one who could see her, hear her, much less speak with her.

"Like your Grace, I am...a wraith, a spirit, a ghost.  Whatever you wish to call this interesting  _condition_ of ours.  We are the same, you and I."

Margaery regarded the figure skeptically.

"Assuming for the moment that I believe you.  Why are you here?"

"You could say it's my unofficial duty of sorts.  To welcome a new spirit.  To explain to her why she is here in this ... purgatory."

"Purgatory?"

"Did you ever wonder, your Grace, why you haven't moved on, to whatever afterlife your faith told you of?  Why, after your _very definite_ death, you woke up again in this world, in this body...if it can even be called a body?"

Margaery looked down at herself.  She was dressed in the same finery she wore to the Great Sept, an elegant yet modest green royal gown.  It accentuated her features – her waist-long brown hair, her big, pretty eyes – without being so blatantly tempting, like the low-cut dresses she used to wear.  In a roomful of religious cultists with ancient notions of morality, she stood out proudly, truly a rose amidst weeds.

Except, now, her beautiful gown was torn and scorched, her hair unkempt, her eyes unnaturally bright and bloodshot.  Patches of burns and blisters marked her once flawless face, her pale arms and exposed shoulders.  She still wore the queen's crown atop her head, the one thing untouched by the wildfire that claimed her life.

She looked ghastly, a horrific, burnt shade of a queen.

"I...don't know."  She whispered, more to herself than to the strange fellow spirit.

The figure silently regarded her.

"Unfinished business?" She wondered quietly, dabbing at her face to dry her ghostly tears.  "The smallfolk, some of them believe the spirits of the dead will not move onto the afterlife, if they have left important things undone."

The figure laughed.  The sound brought to Margaery's mind of wind in a graveyard, at the dead of night.

"If that were true, this strange place we exist in would be overrun with ghosts.  Does anyone truly leave life with no unfinished business?"

It continued, in a musing tone.  "The old traditions of the North say that a spirit will not move on if any person alive still remembers them.  Not just any memory, of course.  The memory must be made of such strong emotion, that it would burn through the very shroud between life and death."  

It paused there, almost awkwardly, "Sorry, was that too soon?"

Despite herself, Margaery cracked a small smile.  "No.  Go on."

"It turns out they were mostly right.  Some living person still remembers your Grace.  They remember you with such emotion, such intensity, that your soul has become fettered here with them. Unless they move on, or until they die, you will remain here, on the edge of two worlds."

"Who would..."  Margaery began, then halted.  She could feel a tugging in her ghostly heart, as if something had her on a chain.  It beckoned her, drew her, tempted her.  The feeling was always there, since the moment she awoke amidst the rubble of the Great Sept. She ignored it before now, being unused to all the strange sensations of her new body -- or lack thereof.

It wanted her to go north.

"Sansa."

"Everyone said you were a clever woman, your Grace."

 

Sweet, innocent, lovely Sansa.  She could still picture the young Stark girl, as clearly in her mind as if it were yesterday.  The daughter of a fallen traitor, held hostage in a hostile city.  The redhead girl in her purple dress, a broken little dove, tormented by everyone she met.  How sad she looked when Margaery first found her.  How eagerly she opened up when Margaery showed her a hint of friendship, a touch of concern.  How genuinely happy she was, when Margaery gave her a beautiful rose, walking arm-in-arm in the gardens. How hopeful she looked, when Margaery whispered in her ear all those sweet promises.

And how shy she seemed when Margaery confessed her feelings.  She had such a blush on her cheeks, as red as her hair, her blues eyes shining with surprise and just a hint of desire.  It made a very pretty sight.

They met in Margaery's chambers, away from wandering eyes and gossipy maids.  She seemed so unsure of herself at first. Margaery took her time, drawing out those sweet sighs and breathy moans from the girl, watching with undisguised desire as the redhead shuddered her release under her care.

She did not seem quite as shy afterwards, when she demanded to return Margaery's favor, her lips seeking Margaery's insistently.  Her blue eyes were tinged with something dark, as she clumsily but eagerly pawed Margaery's chest, grabbing at the soft treasures before her.  It took a bit of guidance, but she expertly quieted Margaery with a deep kiss when the beautiful Rose of Highgarden went over the edge, hips bucking wildly against Sansa's thigh.

 

Some nights later, they lied there, entangled in bed, bare to the world.  The bedsheets were thrown aside long ago, during their lovemaking.  Sansa's larger frame was spooned around Margaery's body, so they could share in each other's warmth.  Her hands palmed Margaery's breasts, playing idly with their dusky tips.  It seemed her breasts had quickly become Sansa's favorite things in the world.

Margaery heard the redhead murmur, dreamily, that she wished they could be together forever.

It was never a real possibility.  They both knew that.  Margaery was to be wed, to be queen, the one thing she desired all her life.  Sansa was a daughter of a fallen house, at most to become a pretty chip in some grand political bargain.  Their stolen moment of bliss was always going to end.

Still, Margaery promised they would be together forever, and sealed the promise with a kiss.

 

How ironic it seemed now.  Sansa remembered her. Maybe even still loved her.  So much so, that Margaery's very soul was fettered to this world by her.

She thought she would more angry about that, being denied her final rest.

It was very difficult for her to be angry at Sansa.

"Why just me?  Why not Loras?  Why not...why not Grandmother?"  She looked at Olenna's still form, still in her chair, seemingly at peace.

The spirit followed her gaze.  "There is nothing left in this world to remember the Queen of Thorns in such a way.  House Tyrell is ashes.  All the things she ever loved, all the things that ever loved her, are ashes."

Margaery closed her eyes.  Tears threatened to well up again.  This time she did not let them.

 

"There is nothing left for you here either, your Grace.  You should go to the one that binds you to this world."

She heaved a shuddering sigh.  "As romantic as that sounds, what difference does it make?  I'm a disembodied spirit.  I can't touch.  I can't feel.  I can't even speak with anyone, except you."

"Oh how I tried to stop them.  The moment I woke in the Sept, like this...I knew Grandmother would not allow House Tyrell to go unavenged.  I knew that she would do something terrible, like she did with Joffrey."  

She looked at Olenna's still form again.  "I tried everything.  I came all the way here to Highgarden.  I tried to warn her.  I tried to warn our allies.  I even tried to put Jaime Lannister's sword through his heart as he slept in his tent."

She laughed bitterly.  "And now, should I go hover about Winterfell?  A useless, dead woman, always watching Sansa from afar, unable to help, unable to do _anything at all._  Until she finally finds someone else to love and forgets about me?"

 _Or until her own death._  In this increasingly chaotic world, Margaery could not even guess which might come first.

"You might be surprised, your Grace."  The spirit walked to the table.  With a black gloved hand, it reached for the other wine glass.  It paused, seeming to focus its thoughts for a moment, and then grasped the glass.

It moved.

Margaery's eyes widened as she watched the figure lift the wine glass.  It moved the cup to its nonexistent mouth, as if to drink.  Then, it let go.

The glass shattered on the floor.

"How did you...?"

"You are very new to your condition, your Grace.  And you are very far from the fount of power that holds you to this world.  We wraiths can be much more powerful than we first appear to be."

Margaery considered this.

She looked directly at the spirit.  "Teach me."

It chuckled again.  "Your Grace, I would love nothing more.  But, such things you will need to learn for yourself.  The memories that bind a spirit, that grant it power...these memories are unique, different for each spirit.  However, there is one thing I can do for you, right now..."

Suddenly, the figure doubled over, heaving, as if in pain.  Its hands clenched into fists, as it held them against its head.  Cracks appeared in the shadowy mask that obscured its face.  What seemed to be blood or ichor, deep red-black, seeped from the cracks.  Its entire body shook, taxed with terrible effort.

 

Margaery stared at the spirit.

After a long while, it seemed to recover.  The cracks in its face-mask slowly faded.  The figure groaned one last time, and stood again.  "My apologies for that, your Grace.  The things that shackle me to this world, they work very differently from yours.  Much less pleasant."

It extended a hand.  "Still, as I said, I can do something for you.  Please, take my hand."

Margaery considered it for a moment.  She was not sure what this spirit wanted, or if it was truly offering help, or was actually drawing her into some malevolent trap. Its strange, shadowy face-mask bore no reassurance. She was sure it was hiding something from her, but did it matter...

She took its hand.  What did she have to lose, now.

_Sansa._

 

 

They were no longer in Olenna's drawing room, in the ruins of Highgarden.

They stood in some woods, with snow falling all around.  A great weirwood tree was before them, reaching up into the grey skies.

"This is ... this is the North.  Winterfell."  Margaery had never been this far north, either in life or death.  However, she remembered Sansa telling her about the godswood in Winterfell, in her home.  She recalled fondly how the girl described to her the great heart tree at its center, with its strange carved face.  With a wistful look, Sansa told her how the Stark family used to gather around the great tree on special occasions, for ceremonies of the old faith.

Though she was not at all affected by the cold, in her new ghostly form, Margaery still shivered.

The spirit nodded.  "It is really a beautiful place.  As beautiful as the Lady of Winterfell herself."

 

Margaery saw her.

Sansa did not seem the shy, sweet girl that Margaery last knew. She was dressed in black, a heavy northern dress complemented by the fur-lined heavy cloak of her people.  A beautiful metal amulet adorned her neck.  Her long, red hair stood in sharp contrast against the white of the snows, and the dreary browns and grays of the Northern wilderness.  

Margaery noted with small satisfaction that Sansa's hair was still braided in the southern courtly style, like her own.  The girl first tried on the new style back in King's Landing, and wore it regularly ever since their first night together.

Like Margaery, she held herself with confidence, with poise. She bore the trained posture of a court lady, of a queen.

Her Sansa was all grown up.

But the sadness behind her blue eyes, the same soul-deep sorrow that she saw that first day in King's Landing, _that_  still remained.

 

Sansa was in deep conversation with a young man, who sat leaning against the great heart wood in the center of the clearing, his back to Margaery.  She seemed happy at first, speaking animatedly with the man, but became increasingly upset as they spoke.

Margaery wanted to go to Sansa, to hold her in her arms, and whisper quiet reassurances into her ear.  She barely stopped herself from trying anyway, as futile as it would have been.

The spirit merely looked on, impassive.

Then, once again, it collapsed to the ground, moaning horribly, with its head held between its hands.  This strange episode seemed far worse than its last. Black ichor-like blood dripped from its blank visage, each drop vanishing as soon as it touched the snow, leaving everything disturbingly, unnaturally pristine.  More ichor seemed to seep from beneath its gloves, flowing down its arms.

"Are you...are you all right?" Margaery asked.  She did not move to comfort it. That did not feel like the right thing to do.

The spirit did not answer her.  It seemed completely lost in its suffering.

 

Sansa had stood up.  She looked forlorn, plagued by her own thoughts.  Thoughts that were terrible, by the look on her face.  The redhead hurried away.  Her companion, still sitting there by the weirwood tree, did not move or call out for her.  She ran quickly toward the main castle, disappearing down the path, beyond the trees.

Margaery wanted, needed, to go after her.  Everything in her ghostly body was drawn toward the fleeing girl.

"Wait!"  The spirit spoke, its voice hoarse.  It remained on the ground.

"Your Grace might not want to appear to her, while dressed like...that."

Margaery stood, momentarily uncomprehending.  Then she looked down again at herself, her torn dress, her burned flesh.

"Your Grace, of all people, should know the importance of appearances.  The wrong look can give the living the wrong impression.  You know, a vengeful ghost rising from its grave to slay all mortals. Makes for a bad first impression."

She laughed, despairingly.  "Thank you for your counsel, but I can hardly go put on a new dress and wash out my hair."

The spirit lifted its head and looked upon her.

"It really unnerves me when you look at me like that, when your face is..." She trailed off.

"Think of her," it said simply.

 

Margaery thought of Sansa.  Thought of the pretty girl in the gardens of King's Landing, roses in her hair.  Thought of her bright blue eyes, shining with both sorrow and hope, as Margaery held her hands in her own.  Thought of her long red hair splayed on white pillows, on Margaery's bed, her chest rising and falling with each breath.  Thought of their frenetic proclamations of love, as they rode each others' thighs, their intimate softness sliding against each other's flesh.

As the memories played out in her mind, she felt a surge of power. She reached out to grasp it.

When she looked down at herself once more, she was no longer the ghastly apparition that rose from the ruins of the Great Sept of Baelor.

She wore her green-gold dress, her favorite, with the deeply low cut front that showed off her body.  Her hair was a lustrous brown, perfectly braided in southern style, just like when she met Sansa, so long ago.  Her skin was pale, unblemished, soft and inviting to the touch. She stood there, utterly incongruous with the falling snows and chilling winds of the North, a lopsided smile on her face.

"Your Grace is a clever woman," the spirit said.

"Thank you, spirit.  I am in your debt."

"Go to her.  She's suffered much.  Make her happy."

Margaery nodded.  She walked toward the castle with purpose, leaving no footsteps on the snow.

The spirit gazed after her.  As did the young man at the weirwood tree, who had turned to watch her departure, his emotionless, all-seeing eyes betraying nothing.

 

Sansa was walking across the courtyard of Winterfell, toward the staircase to her tower.  A man was following her, whispering in her ear.

Margaery's eyes narrowed.   _What is Littlefinger doing here?_

She ran -- or glided, rather -- toward them.  Not being corporeal had its benefits.  A girl of the south, she would never have been able to walk so gracefully in snow in life, much less catch up to Sansa.

Baelish was warning her about something.  Something about her sister Arya?  Margaery could not quite make out the whispered words.  Sansa seemed more agitated than ever.  She was obviously uncomfortable with his attentions.

Margaery closed her eyes.  She focused her mind on one of her most pleasant memories of Sansa.

She moved behind Baelish, and gave him a push.

 

Sansa was very close to simply telling her uncle/guardian/suitor to go away for the rest of the day.  Her conversation with Bran played and replayed in her head. She was in no mood for Baelish's mind games.

It has been so long since they were last together, in Winterfell.  Bran was but a boy then, and she an immature girl with nothing but ill-conceived, romantic notions of kings and knights and love.  Now they were both grown, and traumatized each in their own way.

How time flew.

She was willing to step aside for him, lay down of all her hard-won powers and titles.  As ruling Lady of Winterfell, as regent of the North.  She would have backed him as King in the North, if he wanted it.  Bran was Ned Stark's rightful heir, by all the laws of the realm.  Winterfell was his, at his word.

Instead, he turned down her offer without a second thought.  And, this three-eyed raven business unnerved her beyond all reason, especially once he started to describe...

Sansa closed her eyes and swallowed hard.  She refused to be haunted by the memories of that night, and all those nights following.  She could not afford to be so distracted, not with enemies in all directions seeking the North's downfall, and the complete destruction of her family.

_I wish you were here with me, Margaery._

Not for the first time, she thought of her Margaery.  Someone with a mind as sharp as Baelish, but someone with whom she could actually share her burdens.  Someone with whom she could, willingly, share her everything.  If only things had turned out differently.

_You promised we would be together forever._

She could still feel the parchment in her hand.  Her last, small hope of meeting Margaery again, gone with a blaze of wildfire.  Sincere condolences, written in Olenna's neat script, to a dear _friend_ of her granddaughter.  The old woman knew, of course, despite their discretion. She always knew everything.

She could still remember Jon's worried face, looking at her with those dark eyes of his, wondering if her fragile composure would break at last.  

No, no distractions.  Not now.

She heard an undignified yelp.

Baelish had fallen in a heap, on the ground, evidently having slipped on some black ice.  

"Careful where you step, Lord Baelish. Winter is already here." She walked on, without another backward look.

She thought she heard a very familiar giggle.  The wind must be playing tricks with her.

 

At last in her own room, Sansa sighed in relief.  She threw off her cloak, and put aside her necklace.  She started to unlace herself, to change into something more comfortable.  The natural warm springs of Winterfell, circulating through the stone walls of the ancient castle, provided ample heating.  She did not have to take on the role of Lady Sansa, regent of the North, until supper with the bannermen.

As she set aside the heavy dress, she felt something...strange.  A pair of feminine arms encircled her from behind, and a light kiss was laid upon her neck. She shivered, feeling the chill of winter pressed against her.

A voice that she thought she would never hear again spoke softly in her ear, "Hello, Sansa."

"...Margaery?"

"I promised you forever, Sansa. Do you remember?"

 

The bleeding suddenly stopped.  The soul-rending pain subsided.

The spirit bounded to its ghostly feet.  It concentrated for a moment.  The shadowy face-mask faded away, fully revealing the torn flesh beneath.  Streams of ichor ran down its neck, its clothes, disappearing into the snow at its feet. Its eyes sockets were empty, but they shone with otherworldly bright light.

It moved its gloved fingers experimentally, as if to test that they were still all there.  Then, it lifted its head to look upon the tower, where the Lady of Winterfell would be resting now.

"Don't say I never did anything good for you, my dear wife."  It said, its voice taking on its usual light and mocking tone.  "May she bring you comfort and joy."

"Maybe then you'll finally forget me.  Let me disappear, as you promised."

The shade of Ramsay Bolton turned northward and trudged off, in the direction where the Wall stood, just beyond the gray horizon.  There were other ways to make this torment end.  The three-eyed raven implied as much.  Hopefully, it would not need to come to that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Margaery had lots of ghost sex afterwards.


	2. Ghost Stories: The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Distraught over a letter she had long forgotten, Sansa finds some comfort in Margaery's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for episode 7x06. 
> 
> Inspired by [this tumblr post](https://queenofsnowheart.tumblr.com/post/164451452407/can-my-precious-baby-margaery-get-resurrected-and). This AU has the perfect setup for it. Not my best work, but I hope it soothes some feelings before the season finale.

"You are more broody than you used to be, Lady Stark."

Sansa sat at the table in her chamber, tugging idly at the black gloves on her right hand, lost in thought.  Piles of paperwork were stacked in front of her, the day's tasks only half-completed.  Dressed in her usual heavy black furs, she looked every inch the solemn ruling Lady of Winterfell, with the weight of tens of thousands of lives on her shoulders.

 

The redhead made a very un-ladylike squeal as she felt cold hands underneath her heavy winter dress, sliding down her sides, tickling her just slightly.

"Stop it, Margaery.  It's not fair that you can just reach through my clothes..."

In front of her, the spirit of Margaery Tyrell solidified into corporeal existence, that half-seductive, half-infuriating smirk on her face.  

She did not look a bit apologetic.

"And, I do not brood."

"You _do_.  Must something in the Stark blood."

"How would you know?  How many Starks have you even met?"

"At least two.  Your sister was up on the walls this morning.  She brooded for hours.  Is this a competitive thing, between you sisters?"

 

Unexpectedly, at the mention of Arya, Sansa seemed to withdraw back into herself again.  She clutched her hands together, a nervous tic that Margaery had noticed when they were in King's Landing, years ago.

"What's wrong?"  Margaery asked.

Sansa shook her head.  She would not meet Margaery's eyes.

"You shouldn't lie to the dead, Sansa.  It's disrespectful."  

Sansa did not react to her light tease.  Margaery knelt down, trying to get Sansa to turn to face her.

"Tell me," Margaery persisted, as she wrapped her hands around Sansa's gloved ones. "I'm here for you. Maybe I can help."

Sansa looked down.  She was silent for a long time.  

 

"I was just thinking."

"...about?" Margaery prompted.

"My family."

Something dark flitted over over the spirit's face.  By the time Sansa looked at her again, however, it was long gone.  Margaery's expression was one of perfectly schooled sympathy.

"I thought once we were all together again, that everything would be better.  We haven't been together for years, ever since King Robert came to Winterfell.  I thought..."

Sansa exhaled.

"I guess I never stopped being a stupid little girl, with stupid dreams."

The former queen squeezed Sansa's hand, in reassurance.

"I thought things would be normal again, once my family - what's left of them - returned home.  What I got is...just a series of absurd things."

She started to count off, folding over her black-clad fingers, one at a time.

"Jon. He came back to life, after being stabbed to death by his own men.  I see in his eyes on some days – sometimes, he wishes he'd stayed dead.  And of all of us, he might be the most normal one."

"Bran. My brother can see the past and the future.  That's all he does, all day and night.  He apparently has no further use for his family or his sisters.  Or even simple human niceties, like answering to 'how are you today?'"

"Arya. I found today that Arya spent these last years training as an assassin in Braavos.  She literally wears the skinned faces of dead people.  Maybe the very same people she killed."

Sansa shuddered at the memory.  "And she made it pretty clear that she wants to wear my face next." 

She was actually concerned for her own safety, alone with Arya, her own little sister.  Her own little sister, whose worst behavior used to be just pulling her long hair, or making crude jokes about Sansa's girly hobbies.

 

 

Margaery moved up to sit in the redhead's lap.  The spirit's slender arms folded around her, embracing her in a hug. 

Back in King's Landing, it was only in Margaery's arms that she felt safe, reassured, loved.  Those arms still felt safe, and as welcoming as ever.  Yet, Sansa could not help but shiver at Margaery's cold touch.  

"And me." Sansa folded over her last finger. "I'm here with only the spirit of my dead lover for company, because I literally can rely on no one else in this entire castle.  The same spirit also shares my bed every night.  The servants walking by the door must think I've gone completely mad."

"Not mad.  Very, very lonely, maybe."  

Not even a smile from Sansa.

"I wasn't the one screaming 'Oh Gods, Margaery! Right there! Please! Right there!', at the top of my voice last night,"  Margaery said, her tone comically high and girlish.

At last, that did draw a serious blush from the redhead in her arms.  She reached out and batted her love on the arm.  "I do _not_ sound like that."

Margaery grinned, celebrating her small triumph.

 

"Sansa, Arya's your sister.  Your own family. She can't possibly mean you any harm."

Sansa shook her head again.  

"You don't understand.  She told me she has a list, of people she wants to kill, for revenge.  I think I'm on that list now."

"Sansa..."

"She blames me for Father's death. She thinks I was a prissy, stupid girl who betrayed our family, just to have a chance at being Joffrey's queen.  And now she thinks I'm betraying Jon, so I can have another shot at being queen.  I'm sure she'd cut my throat in a second if she thinks that would help protect her precious Jon."

"What?" Margaery seemed taken aback at this.  "What would make her think that?"

Sansa sighed.

 

"It was before you came to the capital.  When the Lannisters executed my father, they...they forced me to write a letter.  To my brother Robb, calling him to King's Landing to bend the knee to Cersei.  They made me believe they would spare my father if I wrote it."

Of all the terrible things she had to endure, she never thought she would have to relive again these particular memories.

She swallowed hard.  She did that a lot these days, forcibly choking back her emotions – not showing weakness before her people, before anyone.  She would not cry. 

She had been through worse.  Unfortunately.

Margaery tightened her arms around Sansa.  She made soothing noises, and laid light kisses behind Sansa's ear.

 

"I wrote the letter.  I made it as sweet and convincing as I could, so Robb might listen to me."

"Arya has that letter now. I don't know how she got it, but she has it. In her mind, I'm as guilty of Father's murder as any Lannister.  And she's going to show it to all the Northern lords. Show them how the Lady of Winterfell was a traitor to the North, traitor to her family.  Show them what – "

"She's wrong if she thinks that way."  Margaery interrupted.  "You're the bravest, smartest girl I know, Sansa. Not many people can brave the lions' den and live to tell about it. Believe me, I should know."

Before Sansa could protest, Margaery continued, her voice earnest, "You did what you had to do.  That you are here today, alive, ruling Winterfell, is proof of your strength."

Sansa gave a brittle smile.  "Arya doesn't think so.  The bannermen won't think so."

Suddenly, she lifted her head. "Can you go to Arya's room and get the letter back for me, Margaery?  That would solve everything!  I'm a terrible thief, and she's already caught me once, but she won't ever catch you!"

The brunette considered for a moment, but shook her head.  

"I probably can, but I think that will _not_ solve anything at all."

"Why not–"

"First, Arya may have kept this letter on her person. Someone used to taking the secrets of others might be wary to entrust her own to a mere cupboard or hidden compartment.  And sneaking it away from her is quite a task, even for me."

"Second, if the letter were to disappear from her possession, she would suspect...only you, Sansa.  There would be no one else with the motive.  And that would turn her even further away from you."

Sansa slumped back, her face twisted in anguish.  Margaery's logic was sound.  Too sound.

Seeing her love distraught, Margaery added, "I don't think you should be concerned about the letter, for the moment.  Arya knows as well as you that hurting you with the letter will also hurt Jon's cause.  She won't go before the Northern lords with it, unless her hand is forced, somehow."

 

The brunette chose her next words slowly.  "But, I think ... there is something bigger here than just you and your sister not getting along. Something isn't quite right about this entire situation."

"You sent your brother that letter very long ago, before I even came to King's Landing.  That means it must have been here in Winterfell for years, buried in the maester's files.  Why should it turn up, right now, just as you and Arya are learning to live with one another again.  Why should it turn up, at the exact right time to cause your family further grief."

Sansa creased her eyebrows.  "It does seem a bit of a coincidence."

"I've learned, over the years, that there are no coincidences like this one. I've created many similar 'coincidences' myself, all for my advantage.  I'm almost sure there is someone else's hand at work here."

"Who would –"

"Sansa, do you remember what I said to you, all those years ago, about how to explain the seemingly inexplicable in high politics?"

"You said ... that I should always consider 'who benefits?'"

"Yes, I'm glad you remembered.  Who stands to gain the most, from infighting among you?"

"Cersei."

"Possibly.  But the queen wouldn't yet know your sister arrived in Winterfell.  It is likely someone who knows you well enough to know about the letter, and can act quickly upon new information.  Someone already here, in the North, in this castle.  They have betrayed your trust, for some unknown advantage.  Part of their plot involves isolating you from your newly reunited family."

"Not that your family hasn't already done a great job isolating themselves."  Margaery muttered, almost to herself.

Both women sat silently, pondering.

"I think we both have our suspicions, Sansa.  I was going to offer to go through the castle and confirm some details on your behalf, but there is one person who might already know everything."

The Lady of Winterfell followed Margaery's train of thought immediately.  "Bran."

"He can see the past.  He can see the future.  Then I'm sure he can tell you what, or who, brought all this on.  Once we know, we can plan a more...appropriate response.  Together."

Sansa nodded.  She laid her head back down on Margaery's shoulder, nuzzling into her love.  For her part, Margaery simply held onto Sansa.

They rested against each other in silence.

 

"Bran can see ghosts too," Sansa said, after a while.

This time it was Margaery who flushed.  It was an interesting sight, seeing the normally unflappable Margaery Tyrell duck her head in embarrassment.

"I remember.  How was I to know?"

"Serves you right for teasing me so, in front of all the Northern lords."

 

A few days ago at supper, Bran had suddenly whispered to Sansa, from his seat next to her own.

"Your lover is very beautiful. She makes you very happy." He had said, in that emotionless tone of his.  "But, Sansa, you are the ruling Lady of Winterfell.  You can not afford distractions.  I hope you will not let her become a distraction."

At that moment, Margaery's head was between her legs, right there under the table, her tongue causing Sansa all sorts of distraction.  From Sansa's barely restrained reactions, it was a wonder that no one else caught on, even if they could not see the ethereal spirit kneeling before their Lady.

Bran really had the skill to say the most appropriate things at the most inappropriate time.

 

Sensing the mood improving, Margaery's tone turned amorous. "You know, Bran's not here now.  He'll be out in the godswood, communing with his ravens, for a few more hours yet." 

A smirk returned to her face.  "I'm sure we can find you something more fun to do.  More fun than sitting here and brooding some more."

Sansa rolled her eyes.  "You're really insatiable, for a spirit.  You know, I have a lot of work to do."

"Sansa..."  

Seeing her lover look longingly at her paperwork instead, Margaery added a touch of pitiful disappointment into her voice. "It takes a lot of effort for me to be corporeal for so long.  I need your love, to restore my energies."

Blue eyes met big, doe-like brown ones.

Sansa heaved a long-suffering sigh.  "I suppose there is no harm in indulging you."

Margaery quirked an eyebrow.  "Oh, thank you for your _generosity_ , Lady Stark. I know it must be such a chore, giving alms to this poor spirit bound so helplessly to your will. Please, allow me to express my _gratitude_."  

The redhead rolled her eyes.

 

In a moment, Sansa felt cold hands phase underneath her clothes again, wintery chill scraping over her bare skin.  Her lover enjoyed teasing her like this, far too much.

She was so often the passive one.  Even as the Lady of Winterfell, she always the one letting things happen to her, reacting, responding.  To Jon. To Arya. To Margaery.

Maybe not this time.

Sansa leaned forward, gripping her lover's arms and pushing them back.  Her voice was low, tinged with something dark and unknown.  "No."

Her companion looked up at her, wide-eyed with surprise.

Before she could react, Sansa gripped Margaery's ethereal, flimsy green dress with both hands.  In one quick motion, she ripped it down from her companion's shoulders, exposing the pale skin and pert breasts underneath.

"I always wanted to do that, even back in King's Landing," Sansa murmured.

The brunette looked down at herself.  She pouted.  "That was my favorite dress."

Sansa felt her pent-up frustrations boil over at this latest absurdity.

"Shut up." 

She shoved a giggling, half-naked Margaery backward onto the table.  Parchments flew everywhere as Margaery pulled her down with her.  

Sansa was beyond caring.


End file.
